


Warm Morning

by catfightstevens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Landlady!Hannah, Professor!Longbottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catfightstevens/pseuds/catfightstevens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loving Hannah Abbot is best thing that’s ever happened to Neville. He loves it, loves her. She’s so...well, Hannah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Morning

Loving Hannah Abbot is best thing that’s ever happened to Neville. He loves it, loves her. She’s so...well, Hannah. 

Kind, loyal, intelligent, sensitive, that's a given by her Hufflepuff nature. When she laughs, it's like birdsong. Her smiles make him weak in the knees. She is beautiful, petite, with long blonde hair and honey-hazel eyes. Curvy bum, curvy top, thin waist. Not that that matters, it’s her face that does him. It’s so expressive, with its little pointed chin, and her big sweet doe-eyes (she get him to do anything with her big eyes), and her wee nose, and soft pink mouth. 

He is methodical tonight, wanting to savor the moment. His head buzzes pleasantly from the wine they have at dinner, a lovely dinner that they (with they meaning mostly Hannah) made together in her one-room flat, where he all but lives these days. He’s even got his own drawer with spare clothes in it, cologne that rests on her vanity, and a toothbrush in the bathroom. 

“This is delicious,” he says, taking another bite of the tender steak. Hannah’s an artist with food--rare red meat still oozing a bit, mashed potatoes in a swirl, a sprinkling of chives on top, green beans with a golden sheen of butter. No need for salt or pepper at her table; she always does it right. Heaven to the mouth.

They don’t even get to the dessert, a beautiful apricot charlotte that sits in her tiny icebox, still chilling. Instead, after the last bite of a lovely meal, and the last guzzle of wine, Neville scoops Hannah up and takes her in two steps to the bed, soft, warm, sumptuous with blankets and pillows. Hannah loves fine things; she has silk sheets (family heirloom, apparently), delicate blue-and-white porcelain plates (hastily levitated to the sink, where an enchanted brush will take care of them), a collection of lovely teacups in the shape of phoenixes, swans, peacocks, and opening flowers, and the oldest wireless he’s ever seen. 

Lovingly, he kicks off his wingtip shoes and woolen socks (Hannah’s also a Northerner, from the Lake District, and understands his Yorkshire ways coupled with seven years of school in Scotland), and lays her down. She’s so lovely, in her wine-red dress that ties at the waist, which he quickly disposes of. She always looks so lovely in candlelight, he thinks, as he divests her of white silk slip, sage stockings, and stares at her honey-colored eyes. She reaches up and kisses him, and suddenly, his white button-up is gone, as well as his corduroy trousers. Her bra is pale-pink, scalloped cups and beading, very lovely, very Hannah. 

Soon, all clothes are gone, and he is gently, heatedly kissing her creamy skin, in a tangle of love. She nibbles possessively on his shoulder and his ear. Not much later, they are one, gasping in unison. Hannah is a chatty lover, always has been. She’s not afraid to ask for what she wants (a relief on Neville’s part), sings and hums when something feels good, and babbles otherwise when in the bed. Neville is mostly a quiet man, but he has been known make a little noise in the heat of passion.

It’s always over too quickly, he notes when they are spent, heaving on the fancy silk sheet, edges trimmed in flowers. Hannah flicks her wand, and window above the sink opens, letting in frosty air. Between them and the candles, it’s so hot one could perish. The candles all go out, and Neville curls up into Hannah’s soft curves, and dozes off, covered in a tangle of the silk sheets, downy comforters, and wool blankets. 

He awakes confused and disoriented. He reaches next to him--no Hannah, but a warm patch. She’s awake already. Her wireless is going, soft. He doesn’t want to wake up, doesn’t want to open his eyes, just wants to stay in their love-nest, wrapped up to the waist in blankets. 

“Morning, Neville,” she trills. He hears the click of a plate on either the counter or the table, and starts, lifting his head out of the soft pillow.

“M-morning,” he mutters, yawning. Head free, he smells coffee, and frying pan smells. The faint murmur of a kettle--tea! He rolls off the bed, and lopes to the dresser, and removes a pair of soft, plaid flannel pyjama trousers out of his drawer to put them on.

“My, don’t you look good this morning?” she murmurs, coming over. Neville looks at himself in the mirror, and sees long pale face, slightly crooked jaw, growth of brown stubble, messy brown hair. 

“Not as good as you, I feel like the hair of a dog,” he murmurs back, embracing her tightly. She’s so little, clad in creamy shorts and a camisole, trimmed in lace, her hair wild and wavy, spilling down her back. 

“Mmm, well, think of me what you will. Breakfast’s almost done,” she says, and walks away on her lean little legs, on her tiny elven feet. She patters across the old wood floor, and he follows like a dog. Helping himself to coffee from the silver percolator and milk from the icebox, he peers over her soft shoulder into the frying pans, full of eggs and sausage and French toast. Hannah nurses a cup of coffee as the tea boils. No morning can happen without tea, but no morning after sex can happen after coffee first, he muses, drinking his own cup. 

They eat at the table, with sticky syrup and cinnamon and powdered sugar and ketchup on her queer porcelain plates. Breakfast is lovely, and they’re famished, and still, they move onto the apricot charlotte to fill hungry bellies. 

“Umm, love, that was delicious, but I need a shower,” he says, stretching. 

“Of course. I’ll keep the kettle going for you,” Hannah complies, eyelids drooping sleepily. She picks up her teacup and settles on the bed with a book for a few moments while the dishes soak. 

The shower is blissfully warm, and Hannah has left a bar of soap in there just for him, unlike last time, when he went to work smelling of her preferred lavender. This one is goats’ milk and pine-scented, and he scrubs down gratefully. Once out, he towels off, leaves the warm bathroom, and kisses Hannah a proper good morning, a heavy kiss that leaves feeling lustily alive and awake to the bones.

“How sweet,” she crows, tasting of tea and sugar. “I’ll be back in a mo’.” She leaves for her turn, and he puts on clothes, fresh pants, dark jeans, white shirt, brown vest, wool socks. Fixing himself a cuppa, he turns the radio up and polishes off the last of the charlotte. He’ll brush his teeth again later. 

She comes out a few minutes later freshly cleaned, smelling of lavender, hair tied in a knot, wearing a black and white checkered shirt-dress that he quite likes, lace poking out of the open collar, evergreen tights, and mustard-colored wool socks. He leans down and kisses her hair on her soft pink mouth. 

“Mmm, you best get to work, love,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. He grimaces, but puts on his leather jacket, his scarf, his shoes, and begrudgingly takes his messenger bag with him. He has papers to grade, and she’ll have to open the bar later this evening. 

“I love you,” he calls softly after putting on his shoes. 

“I love you too,” she echoes, a song in her voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Neville's appearance is heavily based on current Matt Lewis, but you know, he's pretty fanciable...
> 
> Also, I've based Neville's and Hannah's "hometowns" on Diana Summers' excellent Essay "Secrets of the Class List."
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
